


In Each Other’s Care

by slashy (slashmyheartandhopetoporn)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 05:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13897725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmyheartandhopetoporn/pseuds/slashy
Summary: Keith and Shiro mean different things when they ask to be taken care of.





	In Each Other’s Care

**Author's Note:**

> So! This is my first Sheith fic. My first Voltron fic. And one of the only times I’ve written proper smut. 
> 
> And thank you for reading!!!!

Keith sits on his bed, his head thunked back against the wall, when his doors open with a near-silent _whoosh_ , and Shiro enters just as quietly. Keith looks at him sideways, his eyes flickering to and away almost too quickly for Shiro to register.

He doesn’t know why he feels this bad. So lost. The mission had been a success. The day had been saved. And yet, here Keith was, feeling beyond hope. Beyond help.

Shiro sits gingerly beside him on the bed. “What do you need?” he says.

Keith can’t bring himself to look at Shiro. He never can when he asks for what he’s about to ask for. It’s too hard facing Shiro’s kind eyes when Keith feels such sadness over something he can’t even name.

“I need you to take care of me,” he finally says. His voice is no louder than a whisper.

Shiro doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look upset. He nods, as if he was expecting this, and then presses Keith back into the pillows without a word.

Because when Keith says “take care of me” he means “Please take control so that I don’t have to.” He means, “Push me down on the bed and relieve this ever-building pressure in my mind.” He means, “Let me not have to _think_ or _decide_ or _act_ for one fucking minute, because I can’t handle one more ounce of responsibility right now.” He means, “Tell me what you want. In fact, don’t tell me, just take it, because I’m too tired to give anything myself.”

The first time they had fucked like this, Shiro had spent the whole time asking if it was okay. If it felt good. If it was what Keith had wanted. Until finally Keith had said through clenched teeth, “Just fuck me until I can’t think of anything else.” And something about the directness of the words had struck a primal chord in Shiro’s belly, and there hadn’t been another seed of doubt after that. 

He likes it, watching Shiro lose some of his control. Rather, Keith loves it. Loves the way Shiro shoves up Keith’s legs without asking. The way he presses his lubed fingers into Keith’s entrance roughly, knuckles snagging on clenching muscles that Keith can’t find it in himself to relax. He loves the way Shiro’s slick cock pushes in without warning or preamble, a hot, thick weight Keith’s only ever _just barely_ ready for. Loves how these are the only times Shiro lets himself talk dirty. The only times Shiro grits out, “Take it. Take me.” And when Shiro asks, “You like that?” he does so in a completely different tone than he had that first uncertain night.

“You like that?” Shiro says, eyes trained on Keith’s mouth, hips rutting frantically, and Keith could cry.

“Yes,” he says, gasping. He likes that very much.

And Keith loves best how Shiro asks him filthy questions, but won’t let Keith answer more than one or two. Because during fucks like this, Shiro’s fingers always find their way into Keith’s mouth, Keith’s tongue laving at them and suckling on them—flesh and metal alike—until his whole chin is covered in the residual drool from Shiro’s hand fucking in and out of Keith’s mouth.

“You take it so good, Keith,” Shiro says, and Keith can only nod, heavy lidded, around the digits.

Shiro is big, in all ways. His chest is broad, his muscles are thick, and together his hands can splay wide enough to almost fully encircle Keith’s waist, which they do as Shiro now fucks desperately into Keith from behind.

With his mouth empty, Keith is free to cry out into the mattress as he pleases, to whimper and mewl and gasp as Shiro takes him hard and fast. Shiro’s hands bruise prints into Keith’s waist and hips as he drags Keith back and forth on his cock. And this is what Keith wants—this relentless push and pull. It’s all he can think about. How good Shiro feels inside of him. And when Shiro’s hand moves from Keith’s hips to his cock, it doesn’t take much longer for his orgasm to hit.

When it does, Keith goes utterly still and silent. He feels his calves cramp with the strain of his pleasure, but the pain hardly registers. Very little registers beyond the elation that follows completion. The only sensation Keith stays aware enough of is the feeling of Shiro finishing on top and inside of him. Keith lives for the way Shiro’s torso collapses onto Keith’s back, while his arms wrap themselves tightly around Keith’s chest. The world narrows, in these moments, to just the two of them and their entwined bodies. To the soft, quiet way that Shiro whispers, “ _I love you_ ,” into the shell of Keith’s ear while his hips still stutter against Keith’s behind.

To which Keith almost always replies, voice haggard, “ _Thank you_.”

Afterwards, once the mess has been gently wiped away and Shiro has pulled out so they can lay side by side, facing each other, Shiro looks at Keith and asks, “Do you feel taken care of?”

Keith closes his eyes and nods. “I do. You always take care of me just how I need.”

Shiro leans in to nuzzle Keith’s nose. “I just want to make you feel good. To be happy.”

It’s a useless want. Shiro can’t _make_ Keith happy anymore than Keith can dam the deep-hidden rivers of trauma coursing through Shiro’s veins. But Keith appreciates the sentiment all the same.

“I _am_ happy,” Keith says, because in this distinct moment, it’s true. “You made me feel really good.”

Shiro’s smile is painfully sweet, and the contrast in that sweetness to the acts that immediately preceded it hardly stand out to Keith anymore, what with how common this version of lovemaking has become for them. In the beginning it had been strange to think that the same man who would gladly make Keith choke on the length of his cock could also wipe the cum away with the most tender of touches moments later. But now the duality of Shiro’s love has been normalized by how often Keith seems to need to experience it, so it’s hardly a stretch to reconcile.

“Is there anything I can do to take care of you?” Keith asks after a moment of quiet. He’s bone-tired, on the verge of passing into sleep, but he knows Shiro deserves to be cared for the same way Shiro cares for Keith.

Shiro’s smile is fainter than it had been a moment before. His request, when he finally voices it, comes out in a whisper.

“Just hold me?”

So Keith scoots himself nearer and throws and arm over Shiro’s chest. “Gladly,” he mumbles into Shiro’s exposed skin.

It has always been this way, that Shiro’s needs are different than Keith’s. Shiro is better than Keith. Purer. So his needs are less violent. Less filthy. Shiro’s comfort takes the form of more respectable desires—not to be held down and fucked like an animal.

No, when Shiro says those four magic words, _take care of me_ , he means: “Hold me when it’s so quiet I can hear my memories louder than my voice.” He means, “Do my laundry when the anxiety strikes so bad I can’t leave my bunk.” He means, “Know when to hold my prosthetic hand, and when to give it a wide berth.” And he means, “Don’t ask me how I’m doing. Just love me even though it feels like I’m falling apart at my seams.”

All of these things Keith can do easily. In fact, meeting Shiro’s needs has been second nature for him since before Shiro left for his doomed mission to Kerberos. That Keith has come to be able to anticipate what Shiro requires so fully and without prompting is a godsend, really. For often Shiro says “Take care of me,” without saying anything at all. Instead, the request is broadcast in the tense lines of Shiro’s shoulder blades. In the way he fails to speak for hours at a time. In the hands that cling desperately to Keith’s back as he straddles Shiro’s thighs and lets Shiro fuck into him so softly he could cry, Shiro’s breaths ragged against Keith’s collar with every torturous thrust.

No matter how they have sex, they’re making love. Keith knows this. But something about the way they make love when Shiro’s trapped on the jagged edge of his own depression is more vulnerable. More painful. More painful even than the rough sex they have when Keith’s out there balancing on his own jagged edge and demanding Shiro find some punishing way to release him from it. Maybe because Keith never feels he does enough for Shiro when they have sex this way. He tries his best to communicate that he cares—that he loves Shiro and wants to be there for him—but there’s only so much he can do.

“I’m here,” Keith says into the crown of Shiro’s hair. His swollen cock weeps pre-cum all over Shiro’s stomach. His arms are wrapped around Shiro’s neck. Keith rides him softly, rocking back and forth, wanting badly to go faster, but not allowing himself to do so.

And below him, Shiro says nothing.

Their slower pace is maddening. It puts Keith on the precipice of orgasm for such an extended period of time his whole body feels stung from the wait. His breath catches with every nudge against his prostate. It’s unbearable. He needs the release. For Shiro to fuck him harder. To pinch his nipples. To bite him somewhere soft, so that a mark clings to his skin for days.

But he never asks. Because this is how Keith takes care of Shiro, and it’s really not about him at all.

When Shiro finally does empty himself into Keith, his movements sharper and quicker in the buildup, then Keith allows himself to move his hips the way he’s wanted to the whole time. It feels good to move faster. To push back against Shiro harder. To finally come into Shiro’s abdomen, so that they’re both tacky with Keith’s release.

And on nights like this, Shiro doesn’t pull out quickly. Doesn’t clean them up immediately. Rather, Keith sits in Shiro’s lap until the hardness inside him goes completely soft, their physical connection drawn out and sustained as long as possible. They stare into each other’s eyes as the cum that pools on their stomachs and spills from Keith’s hole slowly, is left to gather. Keith knows that Shiro likes to see and feel the evidence of their joining together. Likes to run his fingertips through the mess, as if to say, _I did this_.

When they lay as they do now, Shiro on his back and Keith laying atop him so their torso’s are flush, Shiro has easy access to Keith’s loosened entrance. Keith always shivers when Shiro’s deft fingers dance over his hole, sometimes slipping easily inside to feel the wetness there more thoroughly.

“Is that okay?” Shiro whispers. “Are you hurt?”

Of course, Keith never is after sex like this. So he shakes his head. “I’m not hurt. Go ahead. I like it.” He says this because it’s true, but he also says it because he knows how much _Shiro_ likes it, finger fucking Keith using his spent cum as lubricant.

They kiss while Shiro’s fingers work inside of him. They kiss chastely. They kiss deeply. At one point Keith feels Shiro’s tongue plumb the depths of his mouth while his prosthetic hand moves methodically in and out of him, and then the tongue is gone and their kiss is just a sweet press of lips, while Shiro’s fingers still work him further open.

Keith doesn’t get hard again, but he likes the easy intimacy of this. And he loves how happy it makes Shiro feel, to have Keith so completely pliant on top of him.

“You’re the best,” Shiro whispers against Keith’s lips. His fingers finally slide out and away to grip Keith’s hips again.

“Only for you,” Keith whispers back. He’s not the best. Objectively it’s just a fact. But he tries to be the best for Shiro, and he knows talking down about himself won’t give Shiro what he needs.

“I just want to take care of you,” Keith says after a moment.

“I know,” Shiro replies. “And you do an excellent job of it.”

Keith wants to argue. Wants to deny it. Instead he swallows back the contradiction, and thinks about what Shiro would want.

“We take care of each other,” Keith finally says. “Just like we always have.”

Shiro smiles. He kisses Keith again, a small and touching thing.

In a moment Keith knows that they’ll move to clean up. That they’ll shower together to save hot water and be in each other’s company, and then Shiro will change the sheets while Keith brushes his teeth.

In the morning they’ll go out to the dining hall and act like they didn’t spend the night before working to mend some invisible fissure that shoots simultaneously through the both of them. They’ll go where Allura and Coran tell them. They’ll fight for the fate of the universe.

And in the privacy of their own bunks—Keith’s or Shiro’s, whoever needs it most on any given night—they’ll continue working to take care of one another however the other one needs it.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m on the tumbles! @slash—y (2 hyphens).


End file.
